The boutique was quieter than usual that afternoon. Customers came and went in brief waves, their voices hushed beneath the soft classical music that floated through the space. Yet Eleanor heard nothing. Not really. Not over the sound of her own thoughts.
Daniel's kiss still lingered on her lips like an aftertaste—warm, unwanted, unforgettable.
She tried to lose herself in work: pinned hems, sketched silhouettes, stitched satin. But her hands trembled more than they should, and her thoughts strayed to the way his mouth had taken hers like it was his right. And worse still—how she'd let him.
By five o'clock, she'd nearly convinced herself it had been nothing. A moment of madness. A lapse in judgment. A foolish attraction that would pass like steam off morning tea.
Until he texted.
Daniel Hart: "Meet me tonight. 9PM. 27 Lambert Street. Come alone. Wear red."
No name. No explanation. Just coordinates and command.
Her first instinct was to delete it.
Her second was to reply: No.
But her third… and the one that whispered loudest—was Go.
---
The building at 27 Lambert Street was nothing like Eleanor's world. Brick façade. Graffiti-tagged doors. A converted warehouse turned art studio, tucked away between a forgotten music shop and a shuttered bakery. It smelled like oil paint, concrete, and potential.
She wore red.
A silk wrap dress that hugged her curves like a second skin. Long sleeves, deep neckline, and a slit that threatened her modesty with every step. She'd paired it with crimson lips and black stilettos. She didn't know why—but she dressed like she was ready to be touched.
Daniel opened the door the moment she knocked, as if he'd been waiting with his palm against the other side.
He didn't speak. Just looked her over.
His gaze trailed from her face to the curve of her hips, the line of her legs, the pulse just below her ear.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said finally, voice lower than usual.
"Neither was I," she replied.
He stepped aside. She entered.
The studio was massive—high ceilings, large canvases stacked against walls, photography lights dimmed to a golden glow. In the center, a leather couch and a single glass of red wine waited on the table.
"You live here?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
"And what exactly is this place?"
He walked behind her, voice near her ear. "A sanctuary. A confession box. A place where people stop pretending."
Her heart ticked louder.
He moved to the wine, poured her a glass. "Drink?"
She took it, sipped.
It was dry and dark, like velvet over fire.
"I brought you here for one reason," he said, eyes locked on hers.
"Which is?"
"To feel you again. Without words. Without judgment."
She swallowed hard. "You think you can touch me just because you want to?"
"No," he said, stepping closer. "I think I can touch you because you want me to."
And in the seconds that followed, she realized he was right.
Her hand found the knot of her silk dress and slowly untied it. It fell open slightly, revealing skin and lace and want.
Daniel didn't rush her. He just watched, hungry but patient, like a man about to taste something forbidden and sacred.
"You keep looking at me like I'm a painting," she whispered.
"You are," he said. "One that undresses itself."
He set his camera aside and reached for her—not roughly, but reverently. His hands slid beneath the silk, discovering the heat of her thighs, the curve of her waist, the small of her back.
She gasped as his lips found her neck, her jaw, her collarbone. It wasn't just sex—it was surrender. It was being seen and taken all at once.
No pretense.
No protection.
Only sensation.
The dress slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood in lace and heels and nothing more.
Daniel's breath hitched, but he didn't speak. He kissed her instead—deep, slow, worshipful. Their bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces rediscovered.
He lifted her with ease, carrying her to the couch. The leather was cool against her skin, but his mouth was fire. His fingers roamed like they already knew her. Like they'd memorized the geography of her need.
Every sound she made was honest.
Every touch he gave was a question with its answer built in.
And when she finally arched, gasping his name into the warm air of the studio, she felt a piece of herself shatter—and another come alive.
Afterward, she lay with her head on his chest, her breath still unsteady.
The silence between them wasn't awkward.
It was intimate.
He traced circles along her arm.
"You're not the woman people think you are," he said softly.
"No," she replied. "I'm worse. And better."
He smiled. "You're real."
She turned to face him. "What happens now?"
He studied her. "Now you decide. Run back to your perfect world. Or stay and build one you actually want."
Her eyes closed.
For the first time in years, she didn't have an answer.